


Yew Crown

by stapling_pages



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Tom Riddle, Horcruxes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No character bashing, POV Tom Riddle, Recovery, Self-Indulgent, Service Top, Sickfic, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travel from an Outsider's Perspective, Tom Riddle Needs a Hug, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tom Riddle-centric, playing with cliches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: Something was wrong with the magic of the British Isles and—like everything in Harry Potter’s life seemed to—it led back to Tom Riddle. So, along with Ron and Hermione, he launches a desperate plan to go back in time and save the Wizarding World, and maybe a few others along the way.Tom Riddle knows nothing of this, but he’ll certainly feel the effects.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, instead of working on any of the other fics I have going on, I decided to start a new one! Because what is responsibility, right? And who ever heard of commitment? Not this lady.
> 
> Please enjoy.

Burning logs popped and crackled in the granite fireplace. Snow fell heavily outside, fat flakes hurled around by howling winds as they raced toward the ground to swallow up the world. The street before Grimmauld Place had been consumed by it, dirty pavement and withered grass buried under mountains of ice and snow. Weak rays of light slipped through the occasional break in the clouds, creating short blinding flares that pierced into his eyes, adding another layer to the growing haze of a migraine.

Despite this, Tom Riddle didn’t move from the nest of blankets he’d made for himself on the window seat.

He’d spent the last week trapped in a bed, held hostage by sheets and comforters with higher thread counts than the dress robes Abraxas had given him for Yule and waited on by his ‘generous’ hosts. Not a particularly terrible series of events, given the breadth and warmth of his main caretaker’s hands. But if he had to spend a second longer in that damned bed doing nothing beyond staring at the ceiling or sleeping, he would kill them all—lovely hands or not.

He understood their reasoning, of course. Magic depletion was dangerous, especially considering his unusual circumstances…ones they had no business knowing about. Slughorn was the only person Tom had spoken to about Horcruxes, and he wasn’t fool enough to admit to speaking about such a topic with a student. And Voldemort would never divulge such information to his followers. So, how _had_ they known about Tom, about the diary? Did they know of his plans for more Horcruxes? Did they know _where they were?_

Tom shivered. He bit his lip and pulled the blankets tighter around his shoulders.

What could he hope to do if they did? His wand was missing. He could barely feel his magic, let alone use it. He couldn’t stand for longer than a minute at a time before collapsing or passing out. And then there was…

His knuckles turned white as he clenched his blankets, riding another wave of shivering that choked his breath and sent his teeth chattering. Squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears, Tom buried his face in his knees. His shoulder shook with something more than cold. He sobbed once then sank his teeth into his lip, biting harder and harder until skin broke and blood welled, dripping down his chin.

Tom clawed desperately for the tattered remains of his Occlumency shields but, just as they always had since he’d woken up here, they slipped through his grasp as though they didn’t exist.

He was falling apart at the seams and he _couldn’t make it stop!_ Every other day brought a new outburst, be it familiar rage or mewling tears. Just the other day, Tom had fallen into a screaming fit over lemon slices of all things. A _fucking fruit_ had trampled over his prized stoicism like it was nothing! And now here he was, weeping over a bit of shivering like a snot-nose brat upset that he couldn’t play outside because of the rain.

Tom choked on another sob. He burrowed deeper into his blankets.

It had to be _their_ fault. Whatever they’d done to free him from the confines of the diary _must have_ gone awry somehow. What other explanation could there be? Tom certainly hadn’t failed. He’d preformed the Horcrux Ritual perfectly, leaving nothing to chance. No, it must have been _them._

The bedroom door opened.

Breathing heavily, Tom lifted his head from his knees. Walburga Black paused in the doorway, dragging silver eyes over the blood on Tom’s chin, the tears on his cheeks, and the promise of violence in his eyes if she dared to comment on it. She dipped her head in acknowledgement. Behind her, one of the Black house-elves bared its crooked teeth.

“Kreacher,” she said as she crossed the room.

Her mad, little house-elf jumped to attention. It snapped its fingers, sending an armchair and a table scurrying after her. They settled next to Tom’s window, chair angled so Walburga could see the snowy landscape while still obeying proper etiquette and the table in easy distance of them both. Another snapped set the table with Walburga’s preferred tea service, white porcelain painted with black and gold roses—but the details were different, the layout wrong.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, given that she too had changed. Time had lined her face and deepened the shadows under her eyes. Age had stolen much of the black from her hair, leaving it silver and white. Yet, she still smiled like a threat and painted her nails with black and gold lacquer.

“What happened to the set Orion gave you in fourth year?” If he recalled correctly, it had been intended as a birthday present but then repurposed as a courting gift once they’d officially become betrothed.

“An argument with my eldest before he ran off to the Potters.”

The elf finished laying out a brunch spread. It bowed deeply, popping away once she absently dismissed it. Still, she remained standing.

“My Lord, if I may…” She pulled her wand from the folds of her robes and looked pointedly at his bleeding lip.

A muscle in his jaw jumped.

“Fine.”

A flicker of her wand sealed the wound. Another vanished the mess on his chin and the blood staining his blankets. It also got rid of the tear tracks. He didn’t thank her. Finally, Walburga settled into the armchair.

Tom looked over the offerings, comparing them to past brunches Lucretia and Walburga had forced on him. In their efforts to determine his preferred type of female companion so they could play matchmaker, they’d given him particular standards for such events. It drove Abraxas mad that Tom favored Black traditions over Malfoy ones. The offerings were as they’ve always been, mild sweets and light savories with fish and chicken covering what little meat there was, except—there wasn’t a trace of lemon anything to be found among them.

“You know,” Walburga began, pulling him from his scrutiny, “we never did manage to find you a companion.” She poured each of them a cup of tea, adding a splash of milk to her own. “Abraxas’ French cousin has a few daughters who are rather lovely. And—”

He didn’t want to deal with this. The first half of fifth year had been enough. If he had to endure this again, he’d go mad.

“Charming as your efforts are, there’s little point in them.” Tom reached out of his blanket nest for his tea then retreated back into it. He sniffed at the steaming liquid—Darjeeling. “I don’t have that kind of interest in women.” He took a cautious sip.

To her credit, Walburga didn’t react beyond a split second of wide-eyed staring.

“Ah.” She hesitated. “Then—Abraxas?”

“Has always preferred women.” He smiled thinly. “Our arrangement has never been…Abraxas enjoys spending money and I enjoy gifts. That’s all.” Shrugging carelessly, Tom looked away. “No doubt things ended once he became engaged.”

“I see.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, watching the snow fall.

Tom nibbled his way through a caramelized shallot and spinach quiche, following it with a slice of raspberry sponge cake and a stack of chocolate shortbread. With each bite, the throbbing in his head settled until he didn’t feel quite so wrung out and worn. Perhaps he’d been too hasty sending away the house-elf this morning. Clearly, he wasn’t well enough to afford skipping meals as he pleased. But Tom was _sick_ of bone broth and porridge and fucking chamomile tea with lemon slices of all _fucking things._

Walburga set her tea down with a pointed click.

“Hadrian is under the impression you’re upset with him.”

Ah, Mr. Lovely Hands. His attending med-wizard while Tom recovered whatever it was he was suffering and Walburga’s previously unknown cousin via Arcturus’ younger brother, Regulus. Now why would he be upset with him?

It couldn’t possibly be because he and his two little friends should never have known about the connection between Voldemort and Tom Riddle or that Horcruxes were involved. It couldn’t possibly be because they fucked up a ritual any dark wizard could do in their sleep and left Tom weaker than a wet kitten as a result. It couldn’t possibly be because he kept looking at Tom with those stupid green eyes as if Tom held the answer to all his problems, kept speaking softly to him as if he’d break, and kept touching him with those stupid calloused hands and _yet, refused to try anything._

Of all the times for Tom’s hormones to make themselves known, it was because of someone with morals.

“I’m just—frustrated.” He sighed, leaning against the window. “I’ve never taken orders well, even those regarding my health.”

“Of course,” she agreed, in a pleasant voice that meant she was plotting something. Well, if it got Tom what he wanted, who was he to deny Walburga her amusements?

They finished their brunch in relative quiet, comparing their classmates’ childhood ambitions to where they were now. Tom was…not dismayed, exactly, but rather…disappointed by how different his vision of the future was from reality. It seemed as if Voldemort hadn’t accomplished anything at all compared to Tom’s lofty goals. But still, he had only a small portion of the bigger picture. Perhaps the changes only seemed small from the confines of Grimmauld Place.

Yes, that must be it. Tom Riddle—no, Voldemort would never settle for failure.

The house-elf popped in to vanish their dishes.

Walburga rose from her seat and curtsied. She moved to the door, floating the armchair and table along behind her, but paused. Hesitated, hand braced on the doorframe, before sucking in a deep breath.

“I’m glad you’ve returned, My Lord,” she said, not turning around. “You were dearly missed.”

Narrowing his eyes, Tom frowned. What was she on about?

“It hasn’t been that long since Vol—”

Walburga turned then. Tom froze at the sight of her watery smile, his voice caught in his throat.

“It’s been nearly fifty years since you went missing. Welcome back.”

Quickly, she retreated taking her bizarre sentiments with her. Tom stared after her.

Surely, creating his Horcrux hadn’t affected him drastically enough for there to be such a marked difference? Tom’s behavior wasn’t any different than it had been before. If Tom wasn’t affected then surely the main soul hadn’t been either. So why…?

He shook his head, blamed the sentiment on old age and nostalgia, and turned back to the building blizzard.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew Tom was blinking his eyes open to stare at the underside of a jawline cover in dark stubble. He blinked again, registering the heat of the body carrying him and the large hands against his back and under his knees. Hadrian then.

What would that stubble feel like under his tongue? But that would take effort and would spook Hadrian away, and honestly, he was so pleasantly warm. Tom really just wanted to curl against him and go back to sleep.

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to tag this as 'slow burn' but Tom decided he was thirsty now, thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This will be a slow burn," I said to myself. "Most definitely." ...ahahahHAHAHA!!
> 
> Buckle up, esteemed jury! We're speed-running this shit.
> 
>  **Notes:**  
>  Harry = Hadrian Black  
> Ron = Roland Lovegood  
> Hermione = Hermina Zabini
> 
> These aren't name changes for the sake of name changes, I've got reasons for it.

Tom didn’t start when Roland Lovegood barged in, not even knocking, and dropped a chessboard on the bed. Merely turned from tracing the veins in his wrists—had he _always_ been so pale?—to watch him set up the board with surprising efficiency.

It had become discomfortingly easy to fall into a stupor if he was left on his own for too long. Meandering through vague plots and plans, tripping over unwanted memories as he drifted deeper into the depths of his own mind until, between one blink and the next, hours had been lost. Rather like his research binges but without the glorious starbursts of theories and inspiration to keep him in the present. Perhaps, once he could stand for longer than a minute at a time, Tom would charm Walburga or Hadrian into letting him explore the Black library.

For now, he turned away from visions of theorems and treaties, focusing on Roland’s grinning, expectant face.

“White or black?”

Tom blinked, the last traces of his mental haze dissipating.

“Black.”

Roland’s grin sharpened into a shark’s smile, freckles shifting and stretching as his face moved.

Honestly, who did they think they were fooling? Blood always bred true when magic was involved. Aside from having blue eyes, Roland looked nothing like a Lovegood, and even those were the wrong shade. The Lovegoods were known for the pale, silvery hue of their eyes—Roland’s eyes were too dark. If Tom had to guess then he’d put the other as a Prewett. He had a long, thin face like Ignatius Prewett. Similar hair coloring, too.

Hermina Zabini was a different story. She, at least, had the excuse of being a half-blood to explain why she hadn’t inherited the classic Zabini gold eyes. Traits inherited from a muggle parent don’t have any magic built into them, so there’s nothing competing with the magic structure passed on from the wizarding parent. Less competition led to more stable magic—thus more powerful—and a greater variation in the child’s appearance.

Muggle-borns were an entirely different kettle of fish. They gained magic because their parents spent the majority of the gestation period in areas with heavy natural magic. Of course, purebloods on both sides of the aisle hated to be reminded of this. It spat in the face of their precious political narratives as it reminded them of the truth: most humans gained magic by _chance._ Only a few bloodlines could claim that their ancestors had _earned_ their power, and fewer still of those lines remained.

Of course, Tom likely wouldn’t have noticed the discrepancies in their backgrounds if he hadn’t spent third year obsessively researching this very topic in a childish hope to ‘fit in.’ But he’d save poking holes in their little play for when he had more information—and something to gain from it. Tom had a game to win.

They were still playing when Hadrian and Hermina Zabini walked in, arguing quietly about something.

Tom ignored them, picking over his options. He was down a knight, a bishop, and half his pawns, and Roland wasn’t much better. He hid a smile behind his hand. It had been so long since Tom had enjoyed playing chess. Dolohov and Lestrange sucked the joy out of it, trying to turn every game into a power-play, and Abraxas—bless his frivolous little heart—was a _disaster_ at strategy. Lucretia refused to play unless she could cheat as often as she liked. And the less said about the games Dumbledore forced on him during the winter holidays the better.

It was difficult to enjoy a challenging game when your opponent kept trying to psychoanalysis you, after all.

“Knight to E-4,” he announced. His knight moved, bludgeoning the rook occupying its new space then kicking it off the board.

“Bloody fu—”

 _“Ron!”_ Hermina smacked him upside the head.

“Hey!” He tipped out of her reach, nearly upsetting the board. Freezing suddenly, Roland blinked up at her. “When did you get here?”

She huffed, drawing herself up to begin one of their bickering routines. Rolling his eyes, Tom returned to the board, double-checking his calculations.

Hadrian leaned over his shoulder. “Who’s winning?”

Tom very deliberately ignored how close he was. Ignored the faint traces of medicinal herbs on his tongue when he breathed in and the warm hand on his shoulder. Forced his attention to remain on the game. There were three moves Roland could make if he hoped to win and Tom had a counter for each, plus a series of moves that would net him the game in three rounds, even if his opponent noticed them.

“It’s been close.” He smiled boyishly up at Hadrian, the same smile that had gotten him a few minutes in a shadowed alcove with the son of one of Slughorn’s Russian colleagues, and—nothing. Hadrian gave him and the board confused looks then pulled away. Damn it.

Annoyed, Tom looked away. Roland and Hermina were fake pouting at each other, shaking with repressed laughter as they waited for the other to break first. For a brief second, Tom could have sworn he was watching Lucretia and Ignatius. They’d done this throughout January and the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. It was just as insufferable then as it was now.

He shook his head. The illusion lingered. Swallowing, Tom turned to Hadrian. He, at least, didn’t remind Tom of anyone.

“How was your meeting with Madam Zabini?”

They’d been fretting over their meeting with Hermina’s supposed Family Head for what felt like weeks. He hoped they’d gotten what they wanted, if only so he didn’t have to deal with their scrambling any longer. If they would just _tell_ him what they were after, Tom could help. Manipulation was a favorite past time of his, after all.

“Stressful.” Sighing, Hadrian dragged a hand down his face. “I hate politics. How anyone can enjoy it, I’ll never know.”

“It’s like a puzzle game, but you have a time limit and other players are trying to steal your pieces.” And you could cheat as much as you liked, so long as you weren’t caught!

Hadrian didn’t look convinced. “Yeah? Then what are political dramas—mysteries?”

“Comedies,” he corrected.

That earned Tom an odd, searching stare. Tom shrugged. So his world view was a bit distorted—it hardly effected anyone else. And at least he wasn’t _Dumbledore._

The other two finished their antics. Hermina cleared her throat.

“Madam Zabini wants the Blacks to host the New Year’s Gala,” she said. Unusual, considering it was her year to host, but why was Hermina telling him and not Walburga? “She’s expecting a formal introduction to—” she paused, sharing a hesitant look with Hadrian “—to the…new ward of the House of Black.”

The new ward? This was the first time Tom was hearing about this. When had Walburga— _ah._

“I wasn’t aware I had agreed to such a thing,” he said, keeping his voice mild. Tom pretended to pick at a hangnail as he watched her expression.

She winced. Roland reached over to lace their fingers together. They gave Hadrian a pointed stare.

Grimacing, Hadrian sat down on the bed next to him. He shifted around, crossing an ankle over his knee as he tried to gather himself.

“Look,” he explained, “it was either that or telling her we’re engaged, which didn’t seem like a good idea since, well, you’re underage and I’m your Healer, and that’s a lot of conflict of interest, okay?” Hadrian tried to smile but it crumbled quickly. “Is it really so bad? Letting us look after you? Walburga and I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want. I promise.”

“You might not force me. Walburga might not either.” Tom leaned in close, until Hadrian had no choice but to meet his eyes. “But Arcturus Black is still the Family Head and _he will._ I _refuse_ to be under the thumb of someone who thinks I should’ve been _drowned at birth!”_

He would’ve continued on but Hadrian cupped the back of his neck with a warm hand. Tom forced his breath to stay steady as a thumb brushed over his pulse.

“I won’t let him.”

Tom hated the weight of the green eyes staring into him. Hated how he wanted the hand at his neck to press harder. Hated the vague urge building, the wish to crawl into Hadrian’s lap, bury his face against his shoulder, and pretend it _really was that simple._

“Promises.” Leaning back, Tom laughed bitterly.

How stupid did Hadrian think he was? This wasn’t a fairytale. Tom didn’t have a fairy godmother, and there were no glass slippers leading a prince to his doorstep. He had to fight for every thread of safety, had to bleed others dry to keep himself feed. The only one in Tom’s corner was himself, and even that—

“Whatever.” He shook his head. “It’s your move, Lovegood.”

Roland jumped. “Huh? Oh, right.”

Now why did he and Hermina looks so guilty?

In the end, did it matter? Whatever their plans were, Tom would do as he always did. Picking apart anyone who stood in his way, reshaping them into something useful as he used the skeletal remains of their schemes to lay the foundations of his future. Their blood on the altar of his ambitions. And once he got there, perhaps the world wouldn’t have to burn for his happiness.

Time would tell.

.

What had woken him up?

Tom had been having a lovely dream about—something. He couldn’t quite recall. Something hazy and golden, warm. He pulled his blankets higher until they covered his nose and bunched around his ears. How odd, he usually didn’t remember his dreams even this much. Fortunately, the same could be said about his nightmares. Yet—

He stiffened.

Someone was talking.

They were outside his door, speaking at just the right volume where he could hear them but couldn’t make out the words. He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into his mound of pillows. From the sound of it, they were having a conversation with someone but Tom couldn’t hear the other person—clearly, the politer of the two.

But still! Chatting outside someone’s door in the middle of the night…

He wanted them to shut up. Wanted to cut out their tongue and make them drown in their own blood until Tom could stop hearing their voice like it was fingers of spun steel digging around in his brain. But the mere thought of leaving the warmth and safety of his bed to confront strangers without his magic to protect him left Tom clammy and breathless.

Tom wasn’t meant to exist. If they saw him and realized what he was, they would surely kill him. Horcruxes were illegal for reasons beyond merely splitting one’s soul, after all, and there was little hope of them sparing sympathy for him. They would kill him. He would die. He would be forgotten.

And that would _never be acceptable._

With a loud crash, something fell to the floor, shattering upon impact. Tom froze. There was nothing breakable in the suite Walburga had given him. Hadrian and his tagalongs had been insistent on that for whatever reason. But the crash had come from inside his room, somewhere beyond the foot of his bed.

And just outside his door, the prattling continued as if nothing had happened.

A scrape, like dry bones rubbing together. Slowly, carefully, Tom turned his gaze toward the noise while keeping his head as still as he could. Something moved, fluttered like a cloak in a breeze, edging closer. A mass darker than the unlit room and the thin light from street lamps filtering in through the windows.

It reached out to pin one of his ankles in place. Searing cold radiated from its touch, traveling up his leg through his bones in waves of crackling pain. Tom tried to kick out, to jerk his ankle from its grip, but his body refused to respond.

The bed dipped.

Fingers dug into the knee of his other leg and ice spread. His body strained against the force locking him in place as he fought to get away from the unnatural chill.

‘Don’t touch me! Stop!’ he tried to say, but the chattering of his teeth nearly bit off the tip of his tongue instead. ‘Get out!’

“Dear, _dear_ Tom,” the shadowed mass spoke in a syrupy voice, horrifying in its familiarity, “I was so worried! I had thought you’d left me behind!” It was crawling up his body now, fingers leaving icy trails that cut into him like knives. Despite it drawing closer, he couldn’t make out any details beyond its silhouette, gaunt and vaguely human. “But—no, that wrong, isn’t it? You didn’t leave me. No, we left you…how cruel of us, leaving you all by yourself for so long.” Freezing hands gripped his shoulders, forcing him onto his back. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you? I can fix things, _make it better!”_

It threw his blankets aside. Buttons scattered as it tore open his nightshirt to claw at his sternum, leaving deep scratches that burned as blood welled. A flash of too sharp teeth before it dropped down to rub its cheek in the bloody mess. He could barely breathe through the ice choking his lungs.

“Neither of us will be alone ever again.” Teeth scraped over skin. “So let me in, my _dear_ self.” Then it was biting through skin and muscle, through bone, as it tried to eat its way into his core.

He jerked, eyes rolling, as fingers and teeth picked at his heart. Something hot and metallic crept its way up his throat.

“Everything is _so very cold_ on my own.”

Burning hands, wide and calloused, grabbed his shoulders and dragged Tom upwards.

He gasped, sputtering and shivering violently as if he’d broken though the surface of a frozen lake, lungs aching, throat parched and sore. He buried his face in his hands, collapsing against the warm body holding him up. Swallowing roughly, Tom tried to calm his racing heart. It almost worked, but then—

He looked up.

His own face stared down at him, viscera dripping from a too wide grin, terrible red eyes gleaming fever-bright. Tom screamed, high and thin, fighting against the arms caging him in even as his voice cracked and wavered. Nails tore along bare skin. His fist scrapped over stubble and—that was wrong.

 _That was_ _wrong._

Tom never had a stubble, not because he shaved religiously but because he _couldn’t._ He’d been born with Diarmuid Syndrome, the legacy of one of his parents dosing the other with Amortentia. Diarmuid Syndrome was a medical condition that left him deathly allergic to Moonglass Butterfly wings—a prevalent ingredient in love potions and powerful healing potions. It also mutated his eye color to match his magic, and inhibited hair growth beyond his eyebrows, eyelashes, and head. Dolohov had teased him about it, until Tom lost his patience and put the idiot in his place.

So what he was seeing was _wrong._ Yet, despite _knowing it wasn’t real,_ Tom couldn’t dispel the illusion staring at him. But the back of his hand burned a little where he’d scrapped it over stubble. He could use that.

During the summer before his third year, Tom had overheard some of the older girls talking. With the economy as it was, they’d turned to street-corners in search of money and they’d found it. Stacks of wrinkled currency hidden under mattresses and in wardrobes. Some of it found its way to other orphans, those too young or too ill to find work, folded into socks during laundry duty—even Tom’s, occasionally. They’d been talking about annoying clients and breads had come up, specifically the rashes and burns they sometimes caused.

‘Was such a thing really so irritating?’ he had wondered then. Tom had picked at the idea, turning it over in his head again and again until one morning he woke up gasping and sticky, and well—that answered one question, didn’t it?

Gritting his teeth, he pressed his hands against the stubble. It scrapped his skin, raising goosebumbs, as he mapped the slope of a jawline into a thick neck. He moved upward, trying to ignore the squelch and slide of gore under his fingers, sticking to his skin and leaving pulpy trails of blood as it slid down his wrist. Vomit burned at the back of his mouth before he swallowed it down. He pressed harder, dragging his palms over rough cheeks.

Warm hands caught his wrists.

“Tom,” the illusion said and that—helped. He didn’t make a habit of saying his own name in such a soft cadence. No one else did, either, aside from Hadrian. But— _but—_

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tom shuddered. “Stop wearing my face,” he whispered.

Someone gasped, sharp and loud in the sudden silence.

“Is that what you’re seeing?” With his thumbs, Hadrian rubbed slow circles into Tom’s wrists. “Tom?”

“I—” His voice wavered. Hot tears burned his eyes as he grit his teeth. This wasn’t him. Tom was never so weak, never so careless with his masks. _This wasn’t him._ “I’m not mad.”

“I know you aren’t.”

Choking on frustration, Tom tried to jerk out of Hadrian’s hold but he refused to let go.

_“I’m not mad!”_

“Hey—”

Everything was too much. The heat against his hands. The beating of his own heart. The rustle of cloth as people moved. Lingering traces of sandalwood and vanilla from his soap mixing with drying sweat and medicinal herbs. Tiny, shuddering gasps as he tried to choke down his emotions, echoing through his head, louder and louder until he just _couldn’t take it anymore!_

Tom sucked in a deep breath, tipped his head back, and _screamed_ as loud as he could. Pushed until the air in his lungs gave way and his voice faded into nothing.

He let himself go slack. Collapsed into his mound of pillows and stared blankly at the ceiling. Drifted a bit. His head still felt too full. But everything else had fallen away, far enough that he could breathe again. It was probably a good thing he didn’t have enough magic for even involuntary casting, otherwise the room would be in tatters. The pillows were too nice to suffer that.

Gently, Hadrian removed Tom’s hands from his face.

“Why are you here?” Tom asked the ceiling.

“You were screaming,” Hermina whispered. She hesitated when Tom rolled his head to stare at her but pressed on. “I—we thought that you were—that—”

Roland dropped a hand on her shoulder, clutching it in support.

“It sounded like someone was trying to _kill_ you!” He was pale under his freckles.

Tom blinked. “Oh.”

What else could he say to that? ‘Terribly sorry for disturbing you, friends, you can go back to dreaming about gumdrops and roses now, no worries! _I’m fine.’_

He pretended he couldn’t see the three of them share concerned looks. Things would be easier if they left. Then Tom could put himself back together again in peace, without worrying about someone seeing the ugly parts that ruined his pretty façades. But even as he wished for it, fear of being left alone when that _thing_ still lurked in his head wrapped frozen fingers around his neck, squeezing until his breath hitched and his eyes watered.

This was all wrong, every last second of it. Weeping like a mewling infant over things that never reached him before. The cavernous voids under his skin were his magic should be impatiently waiting for the next spell. Losing hours whenever he blinked. All of it wrong.

All of it _pathetic._

Why did _he_ have to suffer the results of another’s incompetency? Was enduring the ‘mercies’ of his classmates during his first three years at Hogwarts not enough? When would Tom Riddle _just die_ so Lord Voldemort could take his place? Useless cur who couldn’t even split his own soul without vomiting in a corner like some idiot first year. _Honestly._ How could anyone prefer _that_ when Lord Voldemort existed?

How could—

The bed bounced. Tom jolted up.

Roland had thrown himself across the end of the bed, spare blanket and pillow tucked under his arm. Hadrian and Hermina had their own blankets and pillows. When had they…?

“This is a sleepover,” Roland said with excessive cheer. “Resistance is futile.”

“I—” What?

Hermina sighed. “Oh honestly. That’s not how that quote goes!”

“Don’t care!”

And with that, they were bickering again.

Lost, Tom turned to Hadrian. Shuffling his feet, he shrugged.

“Nightmares suck. Especially if you have to deal with ‘em on your own. So we thought you’d might like the company?” A sheepish smile. “Kreacher’ll be sending up some drinks and snacks, and—”

Tom cut him off. “Fine, whatever.” He hesitated, chewing his lip. Risked another look at Hadrian then scooted over. Ignored the flicker of—something when Hadrian settled in beside him. “How do these things work?”

“What?”

“These ‘sleepovers’ have rules, don’t they?”

“No? It’s—it’s just spending time with people.” He fluffed their pillows then leaned back. “Don’t worry about it.”

No rules? Tom pressed a hand over his face. Every social interaction had _rules,_ otherwise nothing world get done! Just how have these people survived this long without realizing this? They’re going to be eaten alive by high society. Hopefully Walburga realized and was planning steps to correct it. _No rules,_ utter nonsense.

He let warm hands pull him down into his mound of pillows. Let himself drift into a haze as Hadrian fussed over his duvet while Hermina and Roland bickered and teased each other in the background. With every breath he took, his chest ached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, Tom! You've been forcefully adopted by a gang of Gryffindors. There is no escape.
> 
>  **Notes:**  
>  The timeline given in the books for the creation of the diary and ring Horcruxes doesn't make sense to me given Tom's personality, so I'm working from a **modified timeline:**  
>  1942/1943—winter: (fifth year) Tom talks with Slughorn about Horcruxes  
> 1943—???: Tom finds the Chamber of Secrets [no references to any other attacks by the Basilisk beyond Myrtle]  
> 1943—spring: (pre-exams) Myrtle chances upon the Basilisk and dies; Dippet refuses Tom’s request to stay at Hogwarts over the summer; Hagrid is framed for Myrtle’s death  
> 13 June 1943 (Sunday): Tom creates his first Horcrux using his diary and Myrtle’s death sometime during the early morning hours; Hogwarts breaks for summer holidays  
> 1945—spring: Tom Riddle graduates from Hogwarts  
> 1945—summer: Tom tracks down the Riddles and Morfin Gaunt; the Riddles are murdered; Tom steals the Gaunt Ring; Morfin Gaunt and Frank Bryce are separately blamed for the Riddle murders  
> 1945—summer/autumn: Tom creates the ring Horcrux; Tom gets a job at Borgin and Burkes
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to ask!


End file.
